


Oh, ye of little faith

by Noscere



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Survival, Watch the hope drain from their eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 02:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11094783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noscere/pseuds/Noscere
Summary: "Not sure what you remember, but a lot's changed. Did the best I could, but… the last 20 years have been tough without you."





	Oh, ye of little faith

**Author's Note:**

> We are watchful. We are needed.
> 
> …We are losing hope.

### 2017

 

The heart of a family lies within its parents, or so Raymond Shen’s _a bo_ and _pa_ told him as he held Anyi for the first time. A mother should sacrifice every second for her son, and a father should work until his bones are frail and his skin is paper-thin until his daughter is fed. In turn, when the parents are frail and the children are thriving at their jobs, the children will tend to their parents. This is how it has been, for thousands of years in a civilization almost as old as humanity’s first scripts. A parent does everything for their child.

Sunyung was eight years his junior. Lily doesn’t talk about her mother now. It’s too painful, when everything that was her life is ash and ADVENT rules the Earth.

Keeping vigil after nightfall is the most conducive time for memories. Under the coverlet of stars and broken rafters, the firelight brings ghosts to life.

Shen tries to remember Sunyung’s smile. Dr. Shen can’t. He is sixty-two, and his memory is falling short. There are few things he does remember: she gave Lily the name of her favorite flower. They met at the Shilin night market; he was a professor, and she was a researcher hailing from the university of Hong Kong. Raymond got her two goldfishes – little orange things with copper fins and bellies splotched with white – on their first date. He later saw them in a tank on her office desk. Sunyung made the best pea pancakes and roasted duck. But he doesn’t remember her face after twelve long years, and he can’t remember her last words.

He's almost glad she's gone. How could he face his wife and tell her, " _Lily is starving because I failed to keep her safe?"_

Lily snuffles under the ragged nest of blankets harvested from an abandoned apartment compound. They’ve camped out in the ruins of Sacramento, now that they have finally reunited. Dr. Shen’s not sure where to go next. His first instinct is to take Lily, run home to Taipei, and hunker down no matter what the aliens do. Screw the Earth, and screw the future, as long as Lily is safe and happy.

But he saw the aliens’ atrocities first hand. He knows there won’t be peace as long as ADVENT has their boot planted on this sorry earth.

He stokes the fire. Sacramento isn’t as frigid as the XCOM Alpha site, but at night, the fog rolls over the sea and sucks the warmth from air.

Raymond accepted the XCOM contract partly out of a desire to further science, but as he packed Lily’s inhaler, Dr. Shen remembered the other reason. Taipei was a land of smog and smoke – though far better than Beijing, it had withered Sunyung’s lungs and cast her into an early grave. _Pa_ had succumbed to throat cancer; the old man was a chain smoker even as Dr. Shen protested ( _but children are not supposed to go against their elders, even as their elders kill themselves._ ) _A bo_ followed her beloved husband soon after. There were only two of them left – a father and his daughter – and he would sooner cut off his arms and legs than lose his daughter too.

And what a change it was. Though San Francisco had its days of smog, Lily could finally breathe freely.

 

The flames flicker, casting odd shadows over the apartment complex’s shell. Raymond thinks of the alien’s assault that had finally toppled XCOM.

A Sectopod had broken down the doors leading to Delta Section. Behind it stood a legion of Mutons and Thin Men. The walls were crumbling and XCOM's best lay dead in the Geoscape.

The Commander had pulled him aside as the sirens blared and aliens poured through the ducts. “ _Leave,_ ” his superior had ordered, “ _XCOM is lost. Go find Lily_.”

“ _What will you do?_ ” Dr. Shen had asked.

“ _I have a plan. Go!_ ”

 

It was a long, arduous trek from Kansas, Manhattan back to San Francisco. Lily had been staying with a colleague from CalTech, not that it did her any good when the aliens bombed San Francisco. He had found his beloved daughter, barely a day over sixteen, a pistol in hand, bruised and shuddering next to the corpse of his colleague. He gives silent thanks to Adjunct Professor Brodie. The man knew his way around guns and gave Lily a way to survive when her own father couldn't.

They’re all alone now. Dr. Shen doesn’t know when Vahlen is, but doubts she would have joined the aliens. Though her desire to push the border of known science harder and faster was… questionable at times. The good doctor is most likely the monster under the bed of aliens all over the Earth. Bradford’s gone on the run, probably trying to resurrect XCOM up in Canada, where alien control is weaker. At least, so say the survivors who still eke out a living in the ruins of the old world. The Commander – the only person to make any headway in pushing the aliens back – is missing in action.

There are whispers in the slums of the good old USA, carried by crazy survivalists who salivate over the chance to make it out on their own. There is word that ADVENT is building city centers – grand, vast empires – that will protect the human race. Apologies from the Elders, so they say. As if humanity would lay over and forgive the countless, ripped from their homes or the mortal coil, and forget the groaning of zombies and the shriek of Sectopod cannons during Terror Missions. But according to the whispers, that’s exactly what’s happening. Humanity is forgiving. Humanity is forgetting.

Lily whimpers in her sleep. Her cheeks are hunger-carved. It’s been ages since either of them had a decent meal. But the ADVENT City Centers…

What father would watch as his daughter shivered and starved in front of a scarce fire?

 _No,_ Raymond tells himself. _I am a criminal on the run. They would kill me for associating with XCOM. I will not leave Lily alone in this world._

He raises his head to the stars above. Dawn is coming. Soon, Lily will wake. He will play the part of determined, all-knowing father. Dr. Shen knows many things about harmonics, and alloys, and updrafts and oscillations. He does not know as much about survival when the civilized world he knew has come crashing down, but he will learn. Dr. Shen will adapt. He will learn which berries are edible and which roots provide sustenance even in the dead of winter. He will teach her to build shelters out of rusted metal and broken cars. He will teach his beloved daughter to survive, even if his bones break and his skin cracks with wear and tear. What father would not do the same?

Still, these aspirations are much less fanciful if one has a full stomach. Raymond casts a glance at the tiny rat bones of last night’s dinner, and tries to keep from throwing up. This was the life his parents led in the countryside. This is not the life he wanted for his daughter. But any hope of changing this sordid situation – overthrowing ADVENT, rebuilding cities, giving humanity their free will – rests with the remnants of XCOM.

 _If there was ever time for a miracle, Commander_ , Dr. Shen thinks as he adds fuel to the fire, _now is the time_.

 

 

### 2030

 

_I am going to die._

Moira Vahlen has been described as many things. A mad doctor, a brilliant geneticist, probably the Commander’s lover. She never thought that _absolute idiot_ would have been added to the list.

Fisher’s disarticulated, disassembled body is displayed prominently in the center of the former research center. A brown crust coats the bones, from where muscles used to attach and blood used to run. Vahlen curses to herself. Fisher was a brilliant mind, far more so than Vahlen herself – Fisher would have stopped before so many died. A good scientist practices ethics.

This is Vahlen’s research, Vahlen’s responsibility.

 _Is this your revenge, Commander?_ the Doctor wonders as she crawls through the ducts. She leaves a trail of noxious pheromones in her wake – sadly, only the newborn Viper’s vomeronasal organs seem to be sensitive to the pheromones, but it is sufficient to keep her unmolested. _You would have ripped the samples from my hand. You would have told me that I pushed too far and crossed the line._

She leaves a trail of plastic explosives in her wake. Dr. Vahlen loathes to destroy her hard work, when resources are scarce, but to let the creature loose is infinitely worse. The ducts are burrowed into the walls of the cavern: if she is successful, the explosives will bring the ceiling down and crush her mistakes underfoot.

Dr. Vahlen’s greatest and worst creation’s lair lies in the heart of her former complex. It’s Subject Gamma’s territory now.

Subject Gamma shows an intelligence that no other alien has demonstrated, not even Subject Alpha and Subject Beta. She tore the knowledge of the aliens’ weaponry from their minds. And then the doctor, in a moment of pity, gave her subjects new weapons. She had thought that they might have aided XCOM. But any child locked in a cabinet then forcibly extracted from their minds would hardly be sane.

 _“I want to push farther and further_ ,” the Commander had said. Under the Commander, Vahlen had pursued laser weaponry and transhumanism, all weapons to aid humanity in their fight for survival. And maybe, after the war had ended, a new era marked by an end to pain and disease. But her superior would have never approved this experiment. Vahlen is half certain that if the Commander still lived, her superior would have had her thrown into prison.

Her research will carry humanity even further, but only if it reaches the right hands.

“ _The data must be preserved at all cost! You must hurry! Take this and find Bradford!_ ” she had told Dr. Muello, pressing a datapad into his hands. The datapad contains all of her research: new inroads into the aliens’ minds, ways to hijack the psionic energy inherent in all sapient creatures, genetic alterations that could slow the tide of age… If this war is to be a long one, then her research will aid humanity in persisting to the very end.

It all that depends on Dr. Muello escaping from the cavern in time to catch the Skyranger.

Vahlen can no longer hear the thrum of the engines. She dares to hope for the best.

 

Her breath fogs up the air around her, though the scarf around her neck muffles the effect. Vahlen forces herself to take smaller, shallower breaths. The Vipers have pit organs, heat-sensitive membranes set before the nostrils, able to detect heat signatures up to a meter away.

She passes by a grate and catches sight of a nest filled with eggs the size of light microscopes. _They’re breeding_ , she had realized three weeks ago, after hell had broken out, _someone must stop them, before humanity is pushed to the poles_.

Vahlen doubts fleeing to the poles would save humanity, when cold nests are essential to female Viper development and hot nests needed for male offspring. The Vipers are predators that humanity has lacked for the past 2,000 years.

If she fails, either ADVENT must wipe this burgeoning population out, or XCOM must rise again.

The ducts end abruptly in a cover. She slithers out, careful to keep the frosted hinges from screaming.

Her target is burrowed in a tangle of female Viper bodies, swarming in an orgy of tan scales and snow white leather in a shallow ice nest. Hundreds of eggs will be laid as a result of tonight’s activities, and the only resource large enough to sustain such a brood is the local Resistance Haven sixty kilometers away.

She records her last words, in case all should go wrong and Subject Gamma lives. As the timer on the explosives winds down, she gets into position. The Vipers are intelligent and agile. They will immediately head into the ducts at the first sign of trouble. That will be her best change of wiping them out. But that requires a distraction, and Dr. Vahlen is the last living human in this cavern.

Long ago, when she received her medical degree, Dr. Vahlen swore to do no harm. It is far too late for that now.

 _Put a stop to this_ , she begs to a MIA Shen and Bradford, _make sure they harm no one else._

The explosives will ignite in one minute.

“Doctor M. Vahlen, Chief Science Officer,” the doctor inhales deeply, and says with pride, “XCOM. Signing off.”

Vahlen looks at her folly, readies her pistol, and begins firing.

 

 

### 2033

 _“-and stay out!_ ” _He hits the ground hard, and the pebbled earth dig furrows into his temples. He lays on the ground, not drunk enough to ignore the pain from his torn eyelid._

_Then it’s warm, and soft, and John Bradford finds himself wearing his trusty green sweater as he takes his place in Mission Control. Sirens blare, signaling reports of yet more abductions. The Commander is on the scene in seconds._

_“We’ll assist Egypt,” the Commander says after a cursory glance at the Hologlobe, “we need those engineers.”_

_Then explosions rock Mission Control, and Bradford is thrown to the side. Mutons and Mechtoids storm the breach. He watches as Sectopods advance through the Alpha Site_. _One trains its laser cannon on the Commander. His pistol is barking, but the Sectopod is unyielding–_

 

Bradford starts awake with a gasp. He clutches his chest.

He’s in a bed, which is unusual in the ruins of Andorra. Most mattresses have grown enough mushrooms to classify as a forest or something. Bradford doesn’t care about the specifics. He has long since stopped caring about anything.

17 years on the run changes a man.

They have broken Bradford.

 

Bradford looks to the side. He doesn’t know this woman lying beside him, though she does resemble Vahlen. He doesn’t care to find out.

He feels the neatly stitched gash on his cheek. The shaggy beard on that cheek is missing, probably shaved off when the woman patched him up.

Ah. He remembers now; the former Central Officer had staggered into what had passed for a bar, gotten drunk, initiated a bar fight, then received a broken bottle to the face. In short, he had behaved rather like a frat boy, rather than a battle-hardened soldier. In his first days at the USMC, it might have been excusable. Now that he's older - _but not necessarily wiser_ , Bradford thinks – there is no excuse for throwing away his only consistent source of alcohol.

He gets out of bed and dresses. There’s a few matches and cigarettes in his pants. It’s enough for a bottle of beer, maybe two of moonshine. After a moment’s consideration, he leaves them on the pillow beside the woman. Not a lot of room for friends in this world, but maybe it'll keep her from sending people after his ass. Bradford is pretty sure he's got quite the tab racked up at the bar.

The former Central Officer staggers out of the hovel and into the woods. He recognizes this overgrown sector of Andorra la Vella: once a tourist destination and tax haven with its quaint bridges and cobblestone roads, nature has taken its own. The nearest ADVENT city center is an entire country away. ADVENT would have to actively comb the woods to find him, and why would they look for a washed out drunk?

His own hide-out isn’t too far from here. There’s not much for Bradford to do except languish in memories, and he’s not interested in that. Not even chopping wood to ensure he survives the winter or gathering berries for the coming storm – imminent threats to his survival – can shake him out of his daze. The memory of the Geoscape going up in flames haunts him like an old lover.

Bradford pushes past the mossy undergrowth and trampled bushes that hide his little home. Set into the side of a bare hillside, the door is hardly noticeable to anyone not told of its existence. Bradford has cobbled together a few rooms from the trees he’s cut down and the masonry he’s scavenged–

– _the base must be rotting now, we never went back to bury them–_

Bradford staggers to the corner of his home that houses his moonshine still. He’s not sure where he’ll get the sugar now that he’s _persona non grata_ at the bar. There’s a few cans of beer in the crate that holds the rest of his products. He laughs bitterly to himself. _Bradford Brewing Inc._ The former Central Officer’s doing the veteran stereotype proud.

There’s none of the discipline that once characterized the old soldier. He kicks his boots off, shrugs off his coat and pants, catches a glimpse of himself in the shard of a mirror taken from some parent’s former bedroom – god, he looks like hell. There’s more silver than black in his hair, his nose is red and puffy, and his cheeks are bloated from the alcohol. No more boy scout there. Bradford wouldn’t look out of place amongst the meth addicts that haunted the streets of Manhattan.

He grabs a beer and heads to the stained mat that passes for his bed. Bradford sits down hard, trying to chase thoughts of Shen and Vahlen and the Commander from his head. All his searches for the Commander were for naught. Vahlen is MIA. Shen is probably dead of old age. He is the last remnant of a forgotten past, while people in the City Centers scorn XCOM’s sacrifices and praise those who once murdered him.

 

The revolver beneath his pillow shifts over the mattress, enough that gravity pulls it over and it clinks onto the floor.

The gun gleams in the wan sunlight filtering through his home. His weapons are the only things Bradford has bothered to keep in working order. There’s a rifle and shotgun, also tucked into the recesses of his home, in case he needs to make a last stand.

It’s terrible gun safety, but he has one bullet in the chamber. Just in case.

 _Should use it now_ , he thinks, can of beer in one hand, picking the revolver up with the other. _Why wait for ADVENT to finish me?_

He weighs the gun in his hand, then sets it back down. If he were less hung-over, Bradford would realize that he doesn’t care enough to decide whether he lives or dies.

Bradford pops the tab. He doesn’t know if beer can go bad, and frankly, he’s not interested in learning.

“Here’s to us, Commander,” he says, and drowns himself in drink.

 


End file.
